It’s interesting how much we miss when only viewing a person from the outside. Oh, there are a lot of things we can observe. Does a person’s smile reach their eyes? Is their voice animated or despondent? What about the tells of body language when they think no one is watching?
I would hope that someone observing me would come to the conclusion that I am generally a happy person. I thrive when I am with other people. I love my Savior. My faith and my family are very important to me. I enjoy helping others.
All of those things are true. What is not as evident to the human eye is what a prevalent role PTSD symptoms still play in my day-to-day life. How my brain has quite literally been re-wired, and I do not think or act in the same reliable ways I used to.
When Kenny died, we hit the therapy hard. (Hmmm, that sounds uncomfortably close to saying we “hit the bottle hard.”) We did grief therapy as a family. Most of us, including myself, did individual therapy. Flashbacks, nocturnal panic attacks, and paralyzing trauma responses led me to do intense EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) therapy. It was grueling, it was at times re-traumatizing, but I credit it with a lot of the healing that happened during that first year after Kenny’s death.
And then, well, life happened. I still prioritized getting the kids therapy when it was needed, but that year after Mom died, I existed in survival mode. Barely getting by. Struggled being all the places and doing all the things by myself. Dealing with grief brain symptoms all over again, just without her helping me through it this time. So scared that my brain would just break and I wouldn’t be able to be there for my kids. It was only a few weeks after Mom died that A had her first (botched) surgery for feeding tubes, and we entered an entirely new world of medical complications, surgeries, hospitalizations, constantly advocating, drop everything and rush to the emergency room again moments, financial setbacks to untangle, navigating new struggles for other children, obstacles to overcome with work, my own new medical issues to decipher and attempt to treat….
Followed by a surprise engagement, new marriage, unexpected pregnancy and miscarriage, COVID complications, more surgeries, and on and on and on. You know pieces of it.
In the midst of all that, though, I have not been able to properly grieve the death of my mother. That first year especially after Kendall died, I would actually schedule time to grieve. I knew I had to acknowledge and let those feelings out or they would force themselves out in some other unpleasant way. It was necessary, exhausting work.
I’m not saying I haven’t grieved since Mom’s passing. Of course I have. Some days/holidays/events/triggered memories have been harder than others. But I have not given myself permission to just stop and be and process through experiences associated with her illness and passing. I have not allowed myself to acknowledge and process through so many things that have been traumatizing with having my child almost die, of being back in hospitals, of being so helpless to make things better for someone I love. Of seeing so much pain and suffering and loss.
No, it’s been push through, get the next thing done, keep going and going and going because if you stop you worry you might not get back up again.
And it has caught up with me.
I have done a brave thing and started doing weekly Accelerated Resolution Therapy (A.R.T.) that is designed to specifically treat trauma. Several of my children will also be starting A.R.T. soon, and we are all once again back in individual therapy.
It is so, so hard, but I am already seeing benefits. I’m not losing the memories, but I am losing the fear and trauma I had associated with them. The physical responses that felt out of my control. A very small bit at a time I am starting to set down that survival mode hyper-vigilence that has been so ingrained for so very long.
I am also learning a lot about emotions I had not allowed myself to feel before now. Hadn’t even recognized I had. So surprising to realize that I am angry. Throughout this entire experience I have never once felt victimized or felt angry at God for what happened to me. Rather than staying stuck asking, “Why me?” I think I’ve done a decent job of moving forward, choosing faith, learning and growing from my experiences.
But I am angry at myself. Added to shame and guilt for how I feel I have let my loved ones down. Ways I feel I have failed them. Sorrow that they have been negatively impacted by my “damaged” brain.
What I hadn’t allowed myself to acknowledge before is that I am angry for my children. Not at them, for. Angry that they have been hurt. Angry for the unfairness of the things and people and experiences that have been taken from them. Angry that I could not protect them from those losses.
It’s not logical. I know intellectually that they also have a Savior, and His Atonement makes up, for them, for all of the unfairness they encounter in this world. That they each have their own paths to walk, and Heavenly Father knows what they each need far better than I.
I am facing those uncomfortable memories and emotions and fears of inadequacy. One painful layer at a time. I am so proud of myself for choosing to do this hard thing. For actively seeking healing, and in the process becoming better equipped to minister to those around me. Because through the pain comes compassion where there was once ignorance. I am a better person for all of this. Layer by layer by layer.
